Our own summer

"In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." - Albert Camus

Due to a myriad of what could be considered

"negative events" happening in and around my life lately, I don't think I've been my happy, snarky, giggly self: at least not as much as usual.

My father's latest hospitalization due to severe mental illness really knocked me to the ground. I don't know why this time it affected me so much more than the others, but it truly did. After 2 serious suicide attempts in a 2-year period, he's been in and out of hospitals, been on a colorful array of drugs, received electroshock therapy, worked with fantastic social workers and group homes, but has continued to convinced himself he's not worth saving. He cannot function anymore on his own, and is a ghost of the man I once knew; a man I considered not just a father, but my best friend. Five years ago we shared laughs and beers and inappropriate jokes and family memories. Now he barely speaks, and when he does, it's a meshing of self-hate and despair. It's a hard pill to swallow.


Usually when these "sour times" and speedbumps happen in our lives, we use different tactics for dealing with them: some bury them and become assholes to the outside world, others wear their hearts on their sleeve and announce their woes to whoever will listen.
And then there are those who allow themselves to experience the struggle, share a little, and deal with and control the issues, riding it out while trying to maintain some sanity.

I am trying my darnedest to be the last option. Sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. It probably doesn't help that I have surrounded myself with an array of dark and depressing artistic influences, especially within music and books. I don't want to be a Debbie Downer, not in the least; but lately listening to poptastic explosions like Kylie Minogue and reading "hilarious" short stories just feels...fake and gross.

I think I've reached my limit of the dreary after my latest read, Albert Camus' The Stranger. Camus, being the existentialist that he is, created a simple and complicated book about a "morally corrupt" young man named Meursault who drifts through life feeling and caring for nothing, eventually commits a murder, and is ultimately executed due to his obvious moral emptiness and lack of attachment to anything, including his own existence.


Meursault has no drive, no compassion, no emotion. Not until the final moments of his life does he finally realize what gives him peace. He is godless, he is morally bankrupt; but somewhere in his heart he recognizes that something is in there, that made him love things like mornings on the ocean, his lover's laugh, the sky fading into a deep twilight, cooling everything down and clearing his mind, bringing him peace. For this life, however, it's too late for this realization.

I mentioned to my dad this morning that I'm reading this book, as he was a fellow English major and is familiar with Camus. I told him that I don't want it to be too late for him. There are so many parts of life that he enjoys, but he's forgotten how to see them. I'm so glad I read this book.

I cannot imagine how meaningless life would seem without all the little things that make it worth living, which is I think what truly makes it difficult for me. Simple things, like driving down the road on a sunny day with your windows down, or waking up in the morning to the smell of rain. I don't think he remembers any of those things anymore, or how to recognize them when they're right in front of him.

We all try and help him remember. But after all the drugs and therapy and people helping him, he has to want to do it.

And through all this, I have to remember all of those amazing, important parts of life as well. How my dogs are total dorks and make me laugh uncontrollably, or how I feel after a live show that's touched me on levels I didn't even know existed. Most importantly, the family and friends in my life who have watched this whole thing unfold with my dad, and have been such an amazing support to me, always reminding me how important it is to stay happy and take care of myself. And for that, I'm eternally grateful.

So, as much as I love sad stuff sometimes, I think it's time to put the Bon Iver and Morrissey away for a while, and read the latest David Sedaris. It's what humor is intended for: regaining sanity.

Writing "Great American Novels."

"Hard writing makes easy reading." - Wallace Stegner

It's a fairly common opinion that writers should read great books, as it provides inspiration and fuel for our own creations. I also believe this theory to be true, as I always experience the black hole of writer's block when I'm not currently reading. So about 4 years ago, I set a goal to read 50 pieces of literature in a year. I like to switch up what I'm reading, so I don't fall into a slump: from memoirs to novels to short stories and poetry.

I never come anywhere near 50 books. Two years ago, I reached 21, which is the closest I've ever come to my goal.

This year, I opted not to set such an unreachable number, and decided to try to tackle 25 instead of 50. It's July 1, and I've read 7 books. I have a ways to go.

Currently, I'm knee-deep in a character study about 2 couples from the field of English academia who are the closest of friends and have a warm, loving, complicated relationship, right in the heart of the Depression-era. "Crossing to Safety" is a book that looked slightly dull to me after reading the outside jacket, but once I discovered the supreme talent and writing skills Mr. Stegner possesses, I changed my tune. It's chocked-full of English nerdery, and I see why it was recommended to me by someone at work who has a PhD in literature.

I couldn't have picked a better time to read this novel. The story is narrated by Larry, a writer and professor who loses his job at the University of Wisconsin due to lack of tenure and has to actually consider making a living from his writing.

How does one actually do this? To me that answer at times seems unreachable. It's so far from where I am, that I don't know that I'll ever get to that point where my office is a nomadic laptop or a notepad, not a desk that I need to sit at from 9-5.

Don't get me wrong: I love my job. I do. I work in the biggest hospital in downtown Minneapolis, for a data-based research company where employees are respectful of one another, where the doctors have invisible egos, and where everyone wants to learn. My retirement package is so amazing that it will have to take something truly grand for me to leave this place.

But true literary success would most likely send me out.

Deep in the pages of this book, Mr. Stegner gives lots of helpful advice on being the best writer you can be, as well as how unsuccessful a lot of writers are, and how it's important that you write for the "right reasons," which differs from person to person. A vast majority of us who consider ourselves writers would ideally love to be financially successful. We need only to work hard and often, find the niche that best suits us, and pray that eventually, someone will appreciate what we've poured our heart and soul into, and give us a book deal.

In the midst of a dinner scene, Larry is discussing books with a publisher and demeans something that had been recently published by them as "meaningless fluff."

In our time, I wonder what "fluff" would refer to. Danielle Steel? Dean Koontz? Maybe, but that could just be a matter of opinion; Danielle in Dean could actually and truly believe in their writing and be proud of it, and would probably tell people it's not just for the money. If so, good for them.

So "Crossing to Safety" is giving me a little flashlight into the literary hopes and dreams I've had stowed away in my brain ever since I was a little girl. I need to remember why I spent hours of my childhood at my desk, happily writing away and getting lost in writing stories I believed in. I need to write what matters to me, what I'm passionate about, and what makes me happy. However, it's also important to consider the business aspect, and make sure I end up where I'd like to be, whether that be an obscure indie author or another successful paperback on Oprah's Book Club list.

I think finding that balance is going to be slightly tricky. I may not know until I get there.